One or the Other

by John McFetridge

  “Look, you knew you weren’t going to head up a homicide investigation from youth services.”

  “No one cared until now.” She put down her glass and looked at Dougherty. “Until you got involved.”

  “That’s what I mean,” Dougherty said, “it’s politics. The English have an expression, ‘it’s above my pay grade.’”

  “So you don’t care?”

  “I don’t care about the politics, no. Look, I haven’t been doing this that long myself, but I’ve learned a few things. There’s always something else going on, there’s always something between the inspectors and captains and chiefs and mayors and whatever else, but it all goes on at another level and it’s got nothing to do with us. The best thing we can do, the only thing, is deal with what’s right in front of us the best we can. We’re trying to find out what happened to these kids, and if someone killed them we’re going to find out who and we’re going to arrest them. None of this other bullshit matters to us.”

  Legault nodded slowly. Then she said, “Yes, you’re right.”

  Dougherty said, “Okay.”

  And Legault said, “This time.”

  He started to say something, and then he saw her sly smile and he said, “Yeah, this time.”

  After a moment, Legault said, “And you’re right, there is nothing. When this was missing persons two days ago, I spoke to their family and their friends, I asked at Place des Nations, there’s nothing.”

  “They were seen at the concert?”

  “Yes, they left early, they didn’t like it. They didn’t make it home.”

  “They took the Métro?”

  Legault shrugged. “As far as I know.”

  There was a commotion at the door, and then about ten guys came in, all in their twenties, rowdy and loud.

  Dougherty said, “Hockey team.”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, so no one saw them on the Métro at Île Sainte-Hélène — did anyone see them at the Longueuil station? Would they have taken a bus the rest of the way?”

  “Yes,” Legault said. “But I haven’t spoken to the bus drivers from that night yet.”

  “I guess we’ll have to start back at the concert, at Place des Nations.”

  Legault nodded, drank a little of her beer and then said, “They may have walked across the bridge. Teenagers do that sometimes.”

  Dougherty tried to picture his little brother Tommy walking across the Jacques Cartier, and he figured it was possible. Something he’d ask him about.

  “So,” Legault said, “they may have gone off the bridge.”

  “Two suicides?”

  “I don’t think so. The rope around Mathieu’s neck, and Manon was raped.”

  “They didn’t just have sex with each other?”

  “The coroner won’t put it in the report because there was a lot of bruising and damage to the body that could have come from being in the river, bounced off rocks and so on,” Legault said. “But I saw Manon’s neck and her wrists. She was raped.”

  Dougherty nodded, waited a moment and said, “Okay, that’s what we go with.” He drank a little beer and put down the glass. “When the detectives don’t make any progress, if they don’t get anything right away, they’re going to start bringing in experts, psychologists and psychiatrists and criminologists, and they’re going to have theories about water and heights and all kinds of stuff.”

  “And we should ignore this bullshit?”

  “It’s not all bullshit,” Dougherty said.

  “You have some experience with this?”

  “I do, yeah,” Dougherty said. “I knew a researcher once, she made a lot of sense. But that’s not really us, is it? We work the streets.”

  “Yes.”

  He held up his glass and Legault touched it with hers. Then they drank what they had left and put down the empty glasses.

  Legault said, “You’ve worked a few homicides?”

  “A few.”

  “They turned out okay?”

  “Homicides never turn out okay,” Dougherty said. “Someone’s always dead. But we caught the guys.”

  Legault said, “Good.”

  * * *

  Judy said, “Ulrike Meinhof killed herself.”

  “Oh yeah, that’s too bad.”

  Judy got out of bed and walked to Dougherty’s kitchenette. “Do you know who she is?”

  Dougherty said, “No.”

  “She was in the Baader-Meinhof gang.”

  “Oh, that Ulrike Meinhof,” Dougherty said. “The terrorist.”

  “She was found hanged in her cell in West Germany.”

  “She busted the other one out of jail. They went to fight with the PLO.”

  “Yeah, he’s Baader. They’re actually called the Red Army Faction.”

  “I bet they can’t play hockey like the Russian Red Army.”

  Judy came back to the bed, drinking a glass of water, and then held it out for Dougherty. He liked the way she was so casually naked in his apartment after they’d made out, her hair falling loose and her face a little flushed.

  She got back into bed, saying, “No, this Red Army doesn’t play around at all. Lots of bombs.”

  Dougherty lit a cigarette. “Terrorists love their bombs. And their kidnapping. Was she involved in the stuff with the Israeli athletes in Munich?”

  “I don’t think so, but I think at her trial she said she understood or supported the action, something like that.”

  “Always so understanding.” He handed the cigarette to Judy and she took a drag and said, “Do you think there’ll be anything like that during the Olympics here?”

  “No, there haven’t been any bombs or anything like that here in years.”

  “But the Olympics bring in the whole world, everybody’s watching, it could be anyone.”

  “Security’s pretty far up our ass,” Dougherty said. “Everybody’s getting overtime.”

  “So, people are worried something might happen.”

  Judy blew a long line of smoke at the ceiling and handed the cigarette back to Dougherty.

  “What’s going to happen is people are going to get drunk and get into fights and car accidents. That’s going to take up all the overtime. And crowd control.”

  “So you’ll be busy?”

  “Yeah,” Dougherty said, “but I won’t be on any of the Olympic stuff, I’ll be working this homicide.”

  Judy sat up and said, “What? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I just did.”

  “Before, this is a big deal.”

  “But it’s not something to celebrate.”

  “It’s a promotion.”

  “Another temporary assignment,” Dougherty said, “but it doesn’t feel like a happy day. Couple of teenagers killed. I met their parents.”

  Judy got on her side and pressed up against him and said, “No, I guess it’s not a happy day.”

  Dougherty had left Legault on the south shore and driven back over the Champlain Bridge — he liked that view of Montreal, all the buildings lit up at night clustered together with the mountain and the cross above them — and then was happily surprised to find Judy at his apartment.

  Now Judy said, “Puts mine in perspective. After dinner he wanted to go for drinks.”

  “Thursday’s?”

  “Some place like that, some place on Crescent. It’s like he’s trying to relive his youth, or have a youth, I guess. He got married and had me so young.”

  “He say that?”

  “Like that. He was wearing a sports coat and a turtleneck.”

  “I can’t picture that.”

  “My father, it’s unbelievable.”

  “His new apartment around here?”

  “On St. Marc. A lot nicer than this.”

  Dougherty
thought maybe that was a good lead-in to talking about moving in together, getting a nicer apartment, the two of them, but then Judy said, “I hope I get a job soon.”

  “I was on the south shore today. Maybe they’ll call you.”

  “That’s where these kids lived?”

  “Yeah. It looks like they went into the river on their way home from a concert. They might have gone off the Jacques Cartier Bridge.”

  “Oh my god, that’s awful.”

  “If they did, that’s not what killed them — they had water in their lungs.” He felt Judy pressing harder against his side, and he thought for a moment he shouldn’t give her all the details, but then he was thinking she was probably better with that kind of thing than he was. He said, “A boy and a girl. The girl was raped.”

  “Awful.”

  “People are worried the boy did it, of course, and then jumped himself.”

  “That’s possible, isn’t it?”

  “Oh yeah,” Dougherty said. “And if we don’t find out something different happened, then that’s what people are going to believe, that’s what the families will live with.”

  “Then you better find out,” Judy said.

  Dougherty said, “Yeah.”

  At five thirty Dougherty’s beeper went off, and he called and the phone rang once and a man’s voice said, “Bureau des homicides.”

  It wasn’t something to celebrate, but Dougherty did feel good. And he managed to get out of the apartment without waking Judy.

  CHAPTER

  NINE

  The newspaper reporter Keith Logan said, “You forget to put on your uniform?”

  Dougherty said, “Temporary assignment.”

  “You’re setting a record for that,” Logan said. “You might have to buy more than one suit.”

  “I’ll have to get Yvon Lambert to come with me to Dorion Suits,” Dougherty said, “I always get too much as-ole,” saying “hassle” in a heavy French accent like the hockey player did in the TV commercials.

  “Hey,” Logan said, “did you see the Hatfields and McCoys ended their feud? It was in the paper.”

  “Did you write the article?”

  “No,” Logan said, “it came in on the wire. They had a ceremony in a cemetery, three hundred people and a couple of ministers, one was a Hatfield and one was a McCoy. They put up a monument.”

  “A monument to a feud?”

  Dougherty was looking past Logan to the group of cops standing around a car parked behind a fairly new drab concrete three-storey apartment building backing onto the lane off Avenue du Chaumont. The other side of the lane was the back of some very nice hundred-year-old brick houses that faced Parc La Fontaine, so it was possible that was where the dead body in the car had lived or was visiting, but if Dougherty had to guess he’d say it was more likely they’d be walking up the winding wrought-iron staircases on the back of the apartment building and canvassing there.

  “Yeah,” Logan said. “A monument to a feud. They’re not sure what started it, probably something in the civil war, and it killed over a hundred people.”

  “If the guy in that car is a biker,” Dougherty said, “we might have a feud to match it.”

  “I wonder where they’ll put the monument when it’s all over?”

  “How about in there, next to Dollard des Ormeaux, that’s a good monument.”

  “This used to be Logan Park, did you know that?”

  Dougherty said, “No, I didn’t.”

  “Long time ago. It was the Logan farm before that.”

  “You get a piece of it?”

  Logan said, “Before my time.” He leaned over and looked past the backs of the houses and said, “I used to go to the zoo in there.”

  “I think I only came here in the winter,” Dougherty said, “to the ice castle and a little skating.”

  “So, let me know if he’s a biker.”

  Dougherty started to walk into the lane and said, “I’ll let you know when there’s an official statement.” He saw Carpentier standing by the trunk of the car, a Ford, and walked towards it. The sun was coming up, but it wouldn’t hit the lane for a few more hours and the sky was filled with clouds so it was dark enough that Dougherty couldn’t make out any features on the dead guy, though it was definitely a guy with long hair and a bushy beard sprawled on the back seat.

  Carpentier said, “Do you know him?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Gaëtane Gagnon.”

  “Then I do know him,” Dougherty said. “Drug dealer.”

  “Yes, cocaine.”

  “I thought he only sold hash.”

  Carpentier said, “They all have cocaine now.”

  “Was he shot?”

  Carpentier started walking out of the lane. “It looks like it, yes.” He stopped and got out his cigarettes. As he held the lighter to the smoke, he said, “I was wondering, do you know if he dealt much with the Point Boys?”

  “Yeah, I saw him with the younger Higgins a few times,” Dougherty said.

  “When was the last time?”

  “Back in the winter, January, probably. We got that big shipment of hash at the airport, busted the baggage handlers. Streets were dry for a couple of weeks.”

  “That’s when Gagnon started to deal with Higgins?”

  “That’s the first time I saw him in the west end,” Dougherty said. “I don’t know when he started dealing with them.”

  “All right,” Carpentier said. “Good.” He took a drag and blew out smoke, saying, “How’s it going in Longueuil?”

  “Good. I met the detectives in charge.”

  Carpentier nodded. “Allard is under some pressure now. From within, you know what I mean?”

  “I talked to Legault,” Dougherty said. “It doesn’t matter to us.”

  “That’s good. This job, câlisse,” Carpentier said. “It’s bad enough with them,” he motioned to the dead guy in the car, “and then the office politics? Merde.” He shrugged. “Keep me posted.”

  Dougherty said, “For sure,” and walked back to his car. He saw Logan was still there, writing in a notebook, and he said, “Now all you need is a fedora and one of those little cards that says Press.”

  “So, is he a biker?”

  Dougherty said, “Don’t quote me.”

  “I never do.”

  “Then, no, he’s just a guy.”

  “So this isn’t part of the mob war?”

  Dougherty had the car door opened and he stopped. “What?”

  “There’s talk, haven’t you heard it? It’s coming out because of the trial, the Dubois Brothers.”

  “Was that in the paper, too? You should stick to the Hatfields and McCoys.”

  “Dubois said it’s all talk. He said if he’s in the Queen E hotel someone says he owns it.”

  “What’s he doing in the Queen E?” Dougherty said.

  “Funny. They’re saying Dubois is getting squeezed downtown — the Point Boys are moving too far east.”

  “Did you watch The Godfather again?”

  “Come on,” Logan said. “The Olympics are going to be the biggest party in the world and someone’s going to sell a ton of drugs to keep the party going.”

  Dougherty had his hand on the car door and he said, “Sounds like you already know everything about it.”

  “Who’s the guy in the car? He a dealer?”

  Dougherty sat down behind the wheel, but before he closed the door he said, “Off the record, yeah, and you’re right about the drugs.”

  A couple of blocks through the residential neighbourhood, and Dougherty turned onto Papineau and then headed across the Jacques Cartier Bridge to Longueuil. Traffic was heavy and moving slowly coming into the city but heading to the south shore during morning rush hour was quick. Dougherty was thinking that for the
newspapers the idea of a mob war was probably exciting, lots to write about, and he might have found the idea kind of exciting himself a few years ago, but now all he saw was dead guys in cars and lanes and talking to mothers and fathers and wives and girlfriends and sadness and anger. Cops would make a lot of gallows jokes and lots of people would find angles to help themselves.

  It was almost nine when Dougherty got to the Longueuil police station. He waited in the parking lot until he saw Legault pull in and walked towards her car.

  “Good morning.”

  She got out, saying, “Déjà?”

  She was wearing a suit, grey jacket and tight grey slacks that flared below the knee, a white blouse and a blue silk scarf, looking like Angie Dickinson on Police Woman but her hair was short and dark instead of long and blonde. And she wasn’t as confident.

  Dougherty spoke French, saying, “My first name’s Eddie, by the way.”

  “Francine.”

  He figured she was close to his own age, close to thirty, already a sergeant so she must be doing something right.

  “All right, Francine, let’s get to work.”

  The meeting with Captain Allard and the detectives went exactly the way Dougherty figured it would. Detective Boudreau and Detective Lefebvre gave out the assignments — they’d be reinterviewing the friends and families of the victims, and Dougherty and Legault would talk to bus drivers, ticket takers at the Métro and the people who were working at Place des Nations during the concert.

  Businesslike, polite and, without saying it, clear they thought Legault had missed something. She didn’t say anything during the meeting, and Dougherty made sure not to look at her as the detectives did all the talking. Then he and Legault got out of there as soon as they could.

  In the parking lot, Legault said, “They’ve already made up their minds.”

  “They have.” Dougherty stood by his car and said, “I’ll drive, if that’s okay.”

  “We’re just going to the Métro station, it’s not far.”

  “Maybe we’ll go there later,” Dougherty said.

  Legault looked more interested now and said, “Later?”

  “Come on.” Dougherty got in and started the car. When Legault was in the passenger seat, he pulled out of the parking lot and headed for the bridge. “You know they’re not going to get anything from the friends and families.”