Without Blood

by Martin Michaud

  “What do you want me to do about that?” He raged. “Are you expecting me to show mercy? Do you think maybe you’re the victim in all this?” He composed himself. “Why didn’t you come clean when you had the chance? You deceived and manipulated the ethics committee by conspiring with Stefan Gustaffson to hide your mistake. You could have told the truth to a family that was shattered by grief. You could have looked them in the eye and told them why their son had died. They just wanted a little compassion. A little dignity. To be treated like human beings. But no, you decided to lie so you could save your career. And the system protected you. The hospital’s executive director, Jacques Mongeau, refused to review the committee’s decision. But then, like I said, that’s how things work. Nobody acknowledges mistakes in our society. Above all, no one faces the consequences. As long as someone out there is doing worse things than you are, you can just point fingers and tell yourself you’re not to blame.”

  I began to cry. The man was deranged, but he was right about one thing. Instead of facing the consequences, I had hidden away. And I was ashamed.

  “Did you ever stop for a few minutes to think about the parents? About what they were going through? Do you know what became of them? My son is a mental patient, Simone. He drifts from one depressive breakdown to the next. My flesh and blood. As for my daughter-in-law, she spends her time in a drugged-out haze. She’s a heroin addict. Their lives have been destroyed, obliterated by your falsehoods. And for that, Simone, you will now pay. You will face the consequences of your mistakes. You will be punished.”

  Still brandishing his knife, he pulled a syringe from his pocket.

  “What’s that?”

  “A barbiturate. At high doses, it acts as a paralytic. In a few minutes, you’ll be conscious, but incapable of moving. You’ll witness your own death in real time, without being able to do anything about it. Just like Étienne. If I’ve got the dosage wrong, the drug will plunge you into a coma, or kill you. Which would be a shame.”

  I knew that if he injected me with the drug, I’d die without any chance of saving Mathilde. I tried to wrestle free, but he tightened his grip and dragged me by the hair into one of the empty bedrooms. In the middle of the room, he had created a circle of votive candles.

  I was on my knees. His intention was to make me stretch out inside the circle. All I could see was one thing: the syringe. As the man began to press downward, I made my move. It felt like everything was happening in slow motion. Channelling all my strength, I straightened my legs and pushed upward, knocking him off balance. He reacted by pulling harder on my hair, but I kept rising. I was resolved not to stop, whatever happened.

  I felt the hair lifting from its roots, and then the skin itself stretching, separating, and finally tearing away altogether as a lightning bolt of pain shot through me. But I was on my feet, with my attention entirely focused on the syringe. For a moment, the man stared in surprise at the piece of scalp in his hand. Taking advantage of his brief distraction, I seized his wrist with both hands, held it tightly, and sank my teeth into the base of the thumb, biting down with all my strength. I saw his fingers release their grip one by one. The syringe seemed to hang in the air for an instant before it fell. The needle broke when it hit the floor.

  At the same moment, I felt a cold stroke in my flesh. I turned and saw the man pulling his blood-soaked knife out of my right shoulder. The sensation was bizarre. I don’t remember feeling any pain. A shudder went through me, similar to the spasm that incapacitates you when you’re suffering from a fever. Unable to stand, I fell onto my back. I could barely hear what the man was saying.

  “You should have let me inject you, Simone. I’m going to take my time. I want you to appreciate the show.”

  He started by slicing up my face. Each time the tip of the blade touched my cheekbone, an electric jolt went through me, reminding me that I was alive. Then he cut open my blouse and bra, exposing my chest. By now, I felt like I was outside myself, observing the scene. The man bending over me had withdrawn as well, leaving only a predator crouched atop its prey.

  He grazed the knife across my chest; he pierced my bicep and shoulder. Each new wound he inflicted wasn’t meant to kill, only to cause additional damage as I sank deeper into numbness. Finally, the man raised the blade, aiming for my heart.

  I was looking at what I believed was the last thing I would ever see: a blurred image of the vein throbbing in the man’s temple, his body and his weapon merging into a single, unified whole as the votive candles glinted in the blade that was poised to end my life.

  A deafening explosion filled the room. The man stopped in mid-movement. Like a puppet whose strings had been cut, he sank to his knees and fell backward to the floor, blood spreading across his shirt.

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  Night falls, black and moonless. He’s scared, but the old man will be proud of him. He moves forward, compass in hand. Suddenly, he sees two staring yellow eyes through the trees. Lights! As he advances, he realizes that the truck’s headlights have been turned on. He makes an effort not to walk too fast. The old man gets mad if you run with a rifle. “Dad! Dad! I got him!” The yell bursts out of him. He’s too excited to hold it in. No answer. Now he understands. The old man has gone out looking for him, leaving the headlights on to help him find his way. The truck is only a few paces off. Its headlight beams are blinding him. The driver’s door is open, and he can make out a silhouette inside. “Dad?” He steps closer. The interior is splattered with brains. His father is covered in blood. Half his skull has been blown away. His finger is still curled around the trigger.

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  Victor Lessard reholstered his weapon and bent over Simone to check her pulse. She was alive. He called 911.

  Her lips moved.

  He told her not to speak, to save her strength. But her eyelids fluttered and she murmured something. He leaned closer to hear.

  “Mat … ild … in … edroom …”

  “In the bedroom? I’ll be right back.”

  Lessard went up the hallway toward the other bedroom. Its door was closed. That was when he saw the bodies in the kitchen. Nguyen and Ariane. Yes, it was her. He wasn’t dreaming.

  Rage swept through him. This time, he didn’t vomit. He walked straight up to the man lying on the floor. He cocked his pistol and aimed at the forehead.

  He was about to fire when a voice rang out behind him.

  “No, Lessard! Lower your weapon.”

  He turned.

  Commander Tanguay, who had followed him from the station in an unmarked vehicle, was walking slowly toward him. Lessard holstered his gun.

  Simone Fortin staggered toward the murderer and sank to her knees beside his motionless body. Where had she found the strength to move? It didn’t matter. There was no way Lessard would stop her from finishing the man off.

  She began to administer cardiac massage. Was he dreaming, or was she giving orders to Tanguay?

  “You! Grab a towel and apply pressure to the wound. If the ambulance comes quickly, we may be able to save him.”

  “Emergency units are on their way,” Tanguay said, obeying her commands.

  Lessard went back to the bedroom and held the little girl in his arms. He rocked her, whispering soothing words in her ear, until help arrived. When the EMTs tried to take Mathilde from him, he became so agitated that everyone backed off. It was only when Fernandez arrived that he agreed to follow her out of the apartment and into a patrol car.

  Outside the building, a local TV news team captured close-up footage of a weeping Lessard clinging to the child as tightly as a shipwrecked sailor might cling to a lifebuoy.

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  Long after the police car had rolled away, the reporter, deeply affected, ordered the cameraman to erase the footage he’d shot.

  It was a gesture of respect that no one would ever hear about. If the station’s news director had learned of it, there would have been hell to pay. But the rep
orter didn’t regret it for a moment.

  Maybe there’s a shred of decency left in me, he thought, as light snow swept along the street.

  VICTOR LESSARD

  On Sunday, May 1st, 2005, Victor Lessard walked to a convenience store on Monkland Avenue and bought a bouquet of red roses.

  From there he headed up to Terrebonne Street, went west as far as Grand Boulevard, then north to Somerled. The sun was glinting off the cars. Passersby were dressed in light clothes, and the trees were budding. Spring had come knocking at the door like a mischievous kid.

  He arrived at Station 11 around noon. Stopping in the kitchenette to pour himself a cup of coffee, he greeted Constable Chagnon, who was in conversation with the team’s latest recruit, Macha Garneau. Youthful and slender, Garneau was a recent graduate of police college. She had been hired to replace Nguyen, who had died in the line of duty.

  Lessard hoped she’d survive the jungle of Montreal’s streets.

  He closed his office door softly behind him.

  The official funeral had taken place a few weeks previously. Officers had come from all over the country, and even from the United States, to pay their last respects to a fallen comrade. But despite an offer of help from Fernandez and Sirois — who knew writing wasn’t his strong suit — Lessard had insisted on drafting and delivering his own speech. On the morning of the funeral, he still hadn’t managed to string together two sentences.

  Squeezed into his dress uniform, he had stepped to the lectern not knowing what he was going to say. He’d started off a little shakily, but eventually he had hit his stride, using simple words to describe their late colleague’s human qualities, his contribution to the team, and the gaping hole he was leaving behind in their lives and their community.

  Returning to his seat, Lessard was surprised to see that he’d spoken for over ten minutes. He couldn’t even remember exactly what he’d said, but Pearson had looked over with tears in his eyes and nodded his approval.

  Nguyen had been a father of two little girls. When Lessard had approached his widow, whom he knew from Christmas parties, there was nothing he could do but take her in his arms.

  He placed the bouquet on a chair and sat at his desk. The last few weeks had been long and difficult. He wanted to tidy up his papers before leaving.

  The events of early April came back to him. Though he had tried to forget, the painful memories were still desperately vivid.

  Thanks to Simone Fortin’s timely intervention, doctors had succeeded in saving Robert Delorme’s life. But the bullet had struck his spinal cord. He would never walk again.

  Lessard had questioned Delorme several times. He had expected to feel animosity toward the man, but he’d felt a kind of void instead, a deep and overwhelming sense of weariness.

  He slipped a few sheets into a cardboard folder. Beneath them, he found a transcript of one of the interrogations. He began to read.

  April 14, 2005

  Re: Robert Delorme Interrogation

  Interrogator: Victor Lessard

  Witness: Nadja Fernandez

  Witness: Mr. Delorme, have you been informed of your constitutional rights?

  Suspect: Yes.

  Witness: Do you wish to have a lawyer present?

  Suspect: No.

  Witness: The interrogation can begin.

  Q: Why did you want to kill Simone Fortin?

  A: To make her face the consequences of her actions.

  Q: What actions in particular do you blame her for?

  A: She killed my grandson.

  Q: She may have made a mistake, but she also saved your life. Don’t you ever make mistakes?

  A: It wasn’t the mistake I wanted to punish. It was her refusal to acknowledge it.

  Q: Why did you wait so long? Étienne died in 1998.

  A: She had dropped out of sight. I only found out where she was this year, in early March.

  Q: How?

  A: An article appeared in the newspaper, along with a photograph. She had created a piece of software that was sold at a charity auction.

  Q: Why did you kill Stefan Gustaffson and Jacques Mongeau?

  A: I had no choice. They needed to face the consequences of their mistakes.

  Q: What did Gustaffson do that made him guilty in your eyes?

  A: He lied to help his girlfriend cover up her mistake.

  Q: And Jacques Mongeau?

  A: He could have contested the decision of the ethics committee, but he didn’t, because he was a coward.

  Q: Why did you take the risk of transporting Stefan Gustaffson’s body to Montreal?

  A: (Inaudible.) I don’t know.

  Q: You wanted her to see him, didn’t you?

  A: I think so, yes.

  Q: You think so? You should know. You planned the whole thing. We found your notes in your laptop.

  A: I wanted her to understand that she was responsible for their deaths. I wanted her to go through what my son had gone through, even if it was just for a fraction of a second before she died herself.

  Q: What were you planning to do with the blog? Post photographs of the victims?

  A: (Stenographer’s note: Suspect does not answer.)

  Q: And why did you leave the discs at the crime scenes?

  A: I wanted to set an example. These days people try to minimize their guilt by pointing fingers at others who have done worse things than themselves. I wanted the world to see what happens to those who try to dodge their responsibilities.

  Q: Tell me about the chains that you bolted to the walls of your hunting lodge at Mont-Laurier. Were you planning to confine Simone Fortin there before killing her?

  A: I wanted to destabilize her mind.

  Q: How? By torturing her?

  A: You don’t understand.

  Q: By showing her the bodies of Gustaffson and Mongeau? That’s what the two freezers were for, right? To preserve the bodies?

  A: (Stenographer’s note: Suspect does not answer.)

  Q: You were planning to transport the bodies of Gustaffson and Mongeau to the hunting lodge. That’s also in your notes.

  A: She needed to see.

  Q: See what? Your insanity?

  A: I’m not insane. I wanted her to see what happens when you don’t take responsibility for your mistakes.

  Q: And what about the projection system in your torture chamber? What was that for?

  A: I had put together a video about Étienne, from his birth to his death.

  Q: If you had prepared everything so she could see, why didn’t you follow your plan? Why did you run her over with your car?

  A: She was walking along so cheerfully. She seemed so happy, while my son … (Inaudible.) I … seeing her smile … I couldn’t bear it.

  Q: And afterward? Why didn’t you stick to your plan regarding Jacques Mongeau? You still could have killed him and transported his body to the hunting lodge.

  A: I hadn’t foreseen that the car might get stolen. I didn’t know how much time I had. And I needed to be sure I could finish the job. I didn’t want to run the risk of getting arrested before I was done.

  Q: What about the photographs? Why did you take them?

  A: So I wouldn’t forget.

  Q: Wouldn’t forget what?

  A: Why I’d killed them.

  Q: When you cut off Jacques Mongeau’s finger, that was also to help you remember, wasn’t it? A hunting trophy?

  A: I just wanted a reminder.

  Q: A reminder of what?

  A: That justice had been done.

  Q: Do you really think justice was done? Did Étienne’s death really need to be avenged with blood? And what about the killing of Ariane Bélanger? And Constable Nguyen? Was justice done for them? Wasn’t it wrong for you to kill two people who had nothing to do with any of this?

  A: I sincerely regret their deaths, but sometimes collateral damage is unavoidable. I had to finish what I’d started. But I readily admit that I did something wrong, and I’ll face the consequences.
>
  Q: You’ll face the consequences? What does that mean? Are you aware that your madness has ruined the lives of numerous people? Jacques Mongeau had a family. Constable Nguyen had two kids. Ariane Bélanger was the mother of a little girl.

  A: I’m not insane. I knew what I was doing, and I intend to face the consequences of my actions.

  Q: Those are just words. But I hope with all my heart that the psychiatrists share your opinion about your mental health. (Inaudible.) In any case, I hope you realize that if you’re alive today, it’s because Simone Fortin saved your life a second time.

  A: (Stenographer’s note: Suspect does not answer.)

  END OF INTERROGATION.

  Lessard put down the document and sat for a while, lost in thought. Officially, Robert Delorme had killed four people. But Lessard knew the number of lives he had shattered was much higher. Little Mathilde had lost a mother; the Nguyen family had lost a father, a husband, a brother. Lessard himself had been deprived of a colleague and a woman who had briefly touched his life.

  On top of all that, Fernandez had informed him last week that the killer’s son had died of an overdose.

  Was that just a coincidence? Or was it a direct consequence of his father’s arrest and the shocking realization that he was the son of a monster? And in the end, what difference did it make? Pierre Delorme’s death was yet another terrible waste.

  Robert Delorme had decided to represent himself in court. There would be a trial. Justice would take its course. And so would injustice. When would the destructive madness that burned in human hearts finally be extinguished? Lessard was about to turn off the lights when Fernandez walked in.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked. “I thought you’d left.”

  “I had some papers to file. I’m leaving this afternoon.”

  “How’s Martin?”

  “He’s doing well. I’ve convinced him to enrol in a sound-engineering program. He’s really excited about it. By the way, did you finish questioning Tool, the guy who was running the operation?”

  “Yeah. With the information Martin gave us, it was a slam dunk. The ringleaders have all been rounded up. Tanguay’s pleased.”